


The Last Drop

by dbhprincess



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Boys In Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Feelings, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29572905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dbhprincess/pseuds/dbhprincess
Summary: On the bad nights, Connor takes Hank into the bathroom to wash away the grime from Hank’s skin and the destructive urges from his mind. Sometimes, Connor wants more than to help him cope with the hurt and the heartache. Always, Connor wants Hank.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	The Last Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a [prompt](https://twitter.com/dbhprincess/status/1358830273396232192) from @pumkincake2000. Thank you for the inspiration!

It was the 976th drop that did it.

Connor kneeled beside the bathtub and stroked a soapy washcloth up one side of Hank’s chest and down the other while Hank lounged, his head resting against the tile wall, supported by a lime green bath pillow, his eyes closed. As Connor moved, methodically and hushed, he listened to the steady drip of the tub faucet, running at a trickle to keep the water warm.

They’d come into the bathroom twenty-three minutes ago, after a terrible day at work and what had promised to be a terrible night at home. But before Hank could reach a shaking hand for the Black Lamb, Connor had reached for Hank and drawn him down the hall and into the yellow-tiled room, where he’d gently and lovingly stripped Hank bare. Though lightened of clothes, Hank’s shoulders had still sagged.

Now, Connor scrubbed softly along those shoulders and ignored the way their strength made his limbs feel weak, as if most of his thirium supply had rerouted itself to his core to keep up with the demands of his pounding thirium pump. It was always like this, when Connor pulled Hank into the bathroom on the bad nights to bathe him.

Sometimes they showered, where Connor glided up, down, and around Hank’s body with the washcloth until Hank smiled or laughed and wrapped his heated body around him and held. Sometimes, like tonight, Hank lazed in the tub while Connor took as much time as he could scrubbing and stroking Hank’s wet skin until he either grumbled that he was becoming a prune or fell asleep.

Connor didn’t have a preference between the shower or the bath, but he definitely had a preference for Hank naked and covered in water droplets, a feast of input that satisfied his visual processors while leaving his touch processors wanting. For reasons he still hadn’t deciphered, Hank’s wet body and hair were incredibly arousing, and tonight they were spread before him like an organic treasure dotted by liquid diamonds.

But this wasn’t the time for such thoughts, and Connor had a mission – a goal, that is – to accomplish. So, he counted those drops in an attempt to distract himself, to fill his processors with meaningless data so that he wasn’t overwhelmed by the desire to fill his processors with Hank. Because Hank was hurting right now and needed Connor’s patience and consideration, not his passionate pawing and carnal demands.

Drop number 589 perched quietly on the gentle swell of Hank’s belly where it met his sternum, nestled in the crease that formed there, centered beneath his soft pecs, where Connor wanted to lay his head.

Drops number 734 through 747 fell like rain from Hank’s hair when his silver strands shook with quiet laughter at Connor’s retelling of that morning’s food bowl disaster with Sumo.

Drop number 813 slid down the handsome ridge of Hank’s nose and plopped onto his mustache, settling into the perfect curve of his cupid’s bow. Connor wanted to taste it from his lips.

Drop number 935 disappeared entirely when Hank dunked his head under the water to rinse soap from his eyes after Connor completed his ministrations. For a moment, the strands of his hair fanned out in a sterling halo, and Connor wanted to cradle it in his hands.

Hank emerged from the water with a relaxed smile, as if the weight of the day’s burden had washed from his shoulders. Still, Connor counted the drops that ran from his strong forehead down his cheeks – ruddy now from the moisture and heat – and into his beard. 941. Down his neck, raspy with stubble under Connor’s fingertips. 948. Down his chest and its glistening gray hairs. 953, 962, 967. Down, down, down.

Yet, it was the 976th drop that did it. It was a drop like all the others, neither larger nor smaller, with nothing of particular note about its chemical makeup. But drop number 976 fell from one corner of Hank’s brilliant blue eyes as he smiled at Connor with love, crow’s feet crinkling and laugh lines deepening. And if there was one thing that aroused Connor more than seeing Hank wet, it was seeing Hank happy.

So, Connor stopped counting drops, stopped working to distract himself, because he had a new goal to accomplish. He placed one hand, synthskin peeled back, over the faded tattoo on Hank’s chest and it slid it down, down, down, counting the flutters of Hank’s lashes as he watched him through hooded eyes. He leaned in closer and down, down, his mouth hovering over Hank’s earlobe, from which drop number 972 still hung suspended. Hank had needed him, but now he needed Hank, and he was going to swallow him down to the last drop.

Because Connor was done being patient, and Hank was going to know it in 3… 2… 1…


End file.
